Flipflop

“It’s a shirt.” I contested.

“Ma’am, remove your jacket.” He said, again. I wondered what kind of mark on my already marred TSA record would result in calling a security agent a pervert.

I stood half naked in a sports bra. Unflappable, he gestured toward my feet.

“Your shoes” he said flatly.

Now I was pissed.

“They’re flip-flops!” I spat, unable to hold my tongue.

“Ma’am, please step over there”

He pointed to the enclosed glass corral for problem passengers.

“Female assist!” He hollered.

Now I was screwed.

I waited in the black plastic chair, flip-flops obediently placed in the outline of feet in front of me.

Now I was late.

Eventually, the woman with the wand waddled up and looked down her nose at my feet. They were filthy from a week spent in the dirt at Tahquitz.

BEEP! The wand responded as she waved it over my right foot, detecting the twelve screws and metal plate. I pointed out the six-inch surgical scar and after considerable consideration, she released me.

“Have a nice day (delay)”

I grabbed my laptop and Ipod, and leapt into a sprint toward terminal 8, gate 88.

A gap opened up ahead. In haste, I went for the hole shot and stepped in the puddle of spilled smoothie everyone else was avoiding. The sticky residue produced a rhythmic crackling sound each time my foot lifted from the floor. My breaths came in open-mouthed gasps as I raced to the beat of slap, flip, slap, crackle, flip; slap, flip, slap, crackle, flip. I imagined O.J. Simpson. My left arm, which clutched my laptop, pumped faster. I hurdled the outstretched power cord of a charging cell phone. I overtook a portly bike cop on a straightaway. I disruptively burst through the line at Starbucks.

At the end of the terminal, the bouncing, illuminated vision of ‘GATE 88’ grew larger.

As the last confirmed passenger to board, I collapsed into seat 34C. Ironically, I was still only wearing my sports bra.